


nothing but the candle in the mirror

by silverstaineddreams



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, blame the american public school system, we were stuck in homeroom for an hour n this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7138274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverstaineddreams/pseuds/silverstaineddreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Rostova was the world, and the people who loved her were the satellites.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing but the candle in the mirror

**ANDREY.**

He originally thinks that one of the main contributing factors that led to him falling for the Countess, was the the moon; a pale ripple in an enormously unfathomable black sky. It provided a sense of comfort, falsities of safety. Much like Natasha herself. She was a beacon of light, ethereal and enchanting, and so, _so_ young.

It was absolutely dreadful of him to think so— what with his late wife’s horrid and untimely passing— but Natasha was just _easier_ to love than Lise was. They both had their charms, they both were _lovely._

Natasha, however, was not as invested in sipping wine and gossiping with her socialite friends. Natasha was not as trivial, Natasha was not as _annoying._

They were terrible thoughts, but they were the ones running through his head on the night he had met her and he would not apologize for the way his subconscious was begging to be saved. Lise, Lizza…… She was dead. She had left behind a son, and she had carved a hole in his heart. A hole that could now— maybe, possibly— be filled.

Looking into Natasha’s dark, glittering eyes, he felt his past slipping far from him. It was just them. Just them, and the moon. And for a moment, everything is balanced.

Of course, every moment ends.

The promise of her being his _still_ isn’t enough to satisfy his hunger for war. He loves her, _clearly he loves her,_ but not enough to stay. Frankly, it’s disturbing how against his own happiness his desires seem to be. But he knows. He knows he needs to fight. He knows he needs to help defeat Napoleon, much to his dear Pierre’s dismay. He holds on to his home, his life, his Natalya, for as long as he can, but the hunger is insatiable.

He leaves, heart full. He returns, heartbroken.

If love can’t stand the test of time, was it truly love to begin with?

**MARY.**

At first sight, she knew that the Countess, one Natalya Ilyinichna Rostova, would be quite different from the usual young women that had taken a fancy to parading through her home. She was, for one, much more well-dressed than these pariahs. One _can_ be _too_ well-dressed, however, and with her shimmering gown and loud jewelry, the Princess did not hesitate to mentally add Natasha to this pile.

Mary Bolkonskaya had long since invented a game that she played with herself, whenever they had visitors in the house. It wasn’t very entertaining, but it helped sort her thoughts— each new guest would be thoroughly inspected, as the Princess would internally pick apart every one of their negative aspects. Normally, it took a while, for Mary was both bitter and introspective, and the case for Natasha was no different.

Except. Except, it was.

Her games were usually so much simpler. For example; Anna Pavlovna was too pretentious. Anatole Kuragin was amoral, and the same went for that sister of his. Her father was too boldly aging. One by one, every character who swaggered into her home was categorized, and all the information would be filed off into a special corner of her head.

If people knew, they’d think her rude. But Mary had long since learned that her introverted personality in turn offered an introspective view on the world, one that nobody else would ever be able to take from her. At last, something that belonged to only her.

Natasha Rostova just _had_ to go and ruin that.

For, truly, Mary just could not for the life of her figure out a legitimately negative thing to associate with that confident girl with the dark, soft hair. Some part of her brain was aware of this, but it was the _other_ part, the one in control of her actions, the one that shielded her heart from dangerous territory— _that_ was the part of her brain that reared its head during Natasha’s visit.

She acted aloof and disinterested, cold and unloving, and as the minutes staggered by Mary could see the Countess retreat into herself, her self-assertion fading away.

She felt in power, but it was at the cost of seeing a bright, young, beautiful girl grow to hate her. There was nobody in the world that disgusted her more than herself, in those moments. _This_ was Andrey’s betrothed! The great love of his life!

(If he cared so much, then where was he?)

After Natasha left, escaping from their claustrophobic castle in a hurry, Mary got down on her knees and prayed. She begged the Lord for forgiveness, but she didn’t know _why_ she thought she needed to be forgiven. But, oh, she did. She had soured Natasha’s life, and she _hated_ it.

Nevermind that Natalya was beautiful. Or that every time she closed her eyes she saw her face. She needed to fix things between them. Because Andrey, her dear brother, loved the Countess.

And, oh, so did Mary.

**SONYA.**

She remembered trying to love Nikolai. It didn’t prove too hard to fool herself into thinking she might be able to fall for him. With his kind eyes and suave demeanor, any girl would be lucky to call him hers.

For some reason, Sonya had always seemed to be an exception to this particular rule.

Nikolai was sweet. He was her fianceé. His family welcomed her with open arms, touching her cheek, petting her hair, talking about all the Russian customs that would be a part of the wedding festivities.

With every mention of her engagement, Sonya felt herself becoming more at peace with the idea. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to love Nikolai, and finally be _fixed._

Then, she found herself in the same room as Natasha Rostova again.

By then, Sonya had long ago decided that the Rostov’s were the kindest, most sacrificing people that the world could offer. They had taken in a penniless, orphaned girl and raised her as their own. They had _saved_ her. She had known the Countess since they were both carefree children, playing in the sun and smiling at nothing in particular, but it wasn’t until the helpless situation of her ultimate marriage to Nikolai, that Sonya truly began to appreciate her.

Natasha was, quite possibly, the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. And Sonya had seen many beautiful girls. There was something about the Countess that Sonya found entrancing; be it her bright demeanor, her joyful outlook on life, or the fact that she seemed to have taken to Sonya quite quickly— and Sonya had taken to her.

They had always been inseparable. They had always relished in each other’s company. Best friends, cousins, _sisters_.

Sonya had always been doomed to wanting more.

Impossible as it would be, she _longed_ for Natasha, _ached_ for her. Every single fiber of her being _wanted_ to be close to her, _needed_ to touch her. She loved her, _she loved Natasha,_ and no amount of wedding preparations would be enough to make Sonya forget the desire to run her fingers through her friend’s smooth hair.

Alas, she knew it could never be.

Which is why she had to marry Nikolai. Because marrying a Rostov, brought her closer to her Rostova. It would have to be enough.

She had long since realized that she would never be satisfied.

**HÉLÈNE.**

_Elle était charmante._

She was charming.

The opera had been quite the experience for both of the Kuragin siblings. The show itself was a bore, but she hadn’t expected anything else from Russia’s _finest_ entertainment.

Before the show, however, _that_ was when the excitement truly began. All the rumors flying around— _oh, Hélène, did you hear about Boris and Julie? And did you_ see _Anna Mikhaylovna’s attire?_ — all the pairs of eyes settling on her bare arms and flesh. Yes, these types of social interactions were the ones that allowed her to take control of a room.

Dolokhov stood beside her, cocky smile situated on his lips.

Anatole was nowhere to be found.

That, however, wasn’t important right now. Héléne’s eyes had found themselves locked with those of a girl, across the room. Everybody was looking at _her,_ and talking about _her,_ and thinking about _her,_ and it took Hélène a moment to register the fact that this was the great Countess Natalya, the one engaged to Prince Andrey.

 _Charming_.

Naturally, she had approached her, and after a brief exchange of compliments, the two had parted ways, one of them blushing furiously, endearingly, while the other merely smirked as she strutted back to her box. Ironically, the last thing she heard as she made her way back, was Marya D.’s warnings to Natasha to stay away from her, although something told Hélène that the young girl would not be listening too intently.

Anatole had come late, but that was expected of him. From the corner of her eye, Hélène saw him approach Natasha boldly, taking her hand and pressing his lips to it, before he went and took his place besides Dolokhov. Of course. _Of course._

The Kuragin sibling’s desires often seemed to match up— Anatole’s French girls were always destined to be drawn to Hélène at first— but it was times like these that she knew neither of them would ever truly have the Countess. Anatole could pretend, of course, but unmarried heiresses were not the type to stick around for long, no matter how much they wanted to.

After the opera, she watched, somewhat envious, as the two interacted. They didn’t notice. It was almost as if they believed themselves to be the only two people in the room— which, frankly, was a little _ridiculous,_ but if her brother wanted to play with the catch of the day, then who was Hélène to stop him?

Dolokhov was watching them as well, eyes sharpened and jaw set. She held back a laugh at the jealousy burning in his eyes— _he is first rate, darling, but he is not for you_ — and settled instead on pressing a kiss to his neck. He shot her a disgruntled look, recognizing her teasing, but Hélène merely gave him a regal grin, eyes bouncing from her brother to her current lover.

She couldn’t have Natasha.

He couldn’t have Anatole.

What a wry and awfully charming game life liked to play.

**ANATOLE.**

The absolute first and foremost source of pleasure in Anatole Kuragin’s life, was _ce sont les jolies femmes_ — the beautiful women. He was bewitched by them, enchanted, intoxicated.

Natasha, of course, was not the exception to this rule.

Her _arms,_ her _neck,_ her _feet_.

Every single aspect of her seemed to have been crafted by the heavens, hand-made by an angel, and sent down to earth especially for him. It was _punishment,_ not being with her. He loved her, adored her, would die for her. She would be his, he swore to the stars. She would be his.

He sent Hélène after her, pleading his sister to invite her to dinner, and to the costume tournament, and to the ball, and to every single event that they would be having in the near span of the coming decade. She didn’t see what good would come of it. He ignored her.

Their affair was passionate and clandestine, with the letters, and the touches, and the dancing, and the kissing— he couldn’t take it any longer, she _had_ to be his. They would elope.

They would be together, forever.

Dolokhov and Hélène weren’t _opposed_ to the idea, per se. But there was something in both of their expressions that made him realize neither of them were completely on board. Hélène, he understood. She didn’t get a try with the beautiful Countess. _Tough luck, dear sister._

Dolokhov, however, was unreadable.

In the end, they both helped him. Of course they did. They were a team, they always assisted one another’s schemes. Nevermind Hélène’s hesitance. Nevermind Dolokhov’s resistance. All Anatole could think of was Natalie. Natalie, Natalie, Natalie. He didn’t need their approval. He didn’t need their approval, because _Natasha._

And he almost had her, too.

If only Sonya had kept her pretty little mouth shut. If only Marya wasn’t as traditional. If only Pierre had found it in himself to let it go.

But, in the end, he had forgotten himself, his fervor had overtaken him as a whole— Anatole and love did not mix well. No. No, Anatole was made for sexual pleasures, for quick but passionate nights. He had a _wife,_ he couldn’t _marry_ , and he loathed it. He would never be happy again.

(He got over it. Young, stupid boys like him usually do.)

**PIERRE.**

If he tried hard enough, he still remembered who he used to be, just before becoming Count Bezukhov. Just before marrying Hélène. Before she revealed her true motives, before she _broke_ him. And he had loved her.

He had _loved._

The concept, nowadays, was wholly foreign to him. There was something missing inside of him, something broken. Nothing mattered. Everything mattered.

After Marya had informed him about Natalya Rostova’s affair with his brother-in-law, that _something_ had begun to stir inside of him. Oh, _god,_ poor Andrey. The fury grew, unrelenting, twisting and churning in the pit of his stomach. He had used this anger to force Anatole out of Moscow. He had used this anger to reason and comfort Andrey.

It seemed all he had was anger these days.

Andrey asked him to talk to Natasha. To give her back her letters. To explain that _all_ was over. And Pierre— who had known Natasha Rostova since she was a child— had thought him cruel. She was naïve, she was _young._ A fallen woman…… A fallen woman must be forgiven.

The cold, dull glint in Andrey Bolkonsky’s eyes sent a shiver down Pierre’s spine. He tried to rekindle that acute fury, he tried to detest Natasha for hurting his friend. He made himself hate her, made himself forget their past. She needed to be held accountable for her actions.

And then he saw her, standing there.

And everything _stopped._

He looked into her tear-stained eyes and felt all of his ire fade away. The corners of his mouth, which had been pulled into a perpetual frown, eased into a smooth line. His frown, his cold eyes, softened.

And just for a moment— just for _that_ moment— Pierre felt as though he spirit of his old self had somehow found itself back into his tired body. And, suddenly, he _understood._

A fallen woman should be forgiven. Natasha Rostova deserved to be forgiven.

And if Andrey wouldn’t, then he would.

And if he were not himself, if he were a much better man, a much brighter, much handsomer man, then maybe she might have found solace in his words. Comfort. Love.

She smiles at him, and Pierre thinks that maybe, even with all his bruises and baggage, he could be enough. And although he had made up his mind to help Natasha overcome her losses, he can already feel that she’ll be his salvation.

The great comet of 1812 was supposed to signify the end of the world.

Maybe, Pierre thinks, maybe it signifies the end of _his_ world.

He watches the comet soar through the sky, the cold wind nipping at his face, and although he feels his life slipping past him, he also can’t help the feeling that this is all bigger than him. And he’s grateful. For everything. Even the bad things, the tragic things. Hélène, Andrey, Napoleon.

Natasha.

**Author's Note:**

> everybody loves nat rostova: the musical 
> 
> tumblr: rstova  
> twitter: @hugojckson


End file.
